Left Behind
by el spirito
Summary: Series of one-shots based on moments when the Winchesters Three have been left behind by someone...meaning just about everyone. Spoilers for most of the show.
1. Mary

A/N: So each chapter is going to be about one of the Winchesters being left behind by someone else…because it happens enough!

xxxx

John

Standing outside a burning house, I'm cradling a trembling four year old in one hand, a squalling 6 month old in the other. We stand, the tree of us, a broken family, and watch as the hopes and dreams and love our family was based on burn away, crumble into nothing more than ash and smoke. My Mary is in there. My Mary is burning into nothingness.

Suddenly I can feel my shoulders heaving, hear the broken sobs coming out of my own mouth, and I wilt slowly to my knees. Someone tucks a blanket over my shoulders and gently pries Sam from my arms and whispers soothing sounds to him. Someone else tries to hold Dean, but he screams and clings desperately to my shirt and I wrap my arms around his quivering body.

We're taken to a surprisingly nice motel to stay for the night; Dean cries the entire time, doesn't stop when we're driving there, doesn't stop when the door closes and we're all alone for the first time, the three of us, a broken little family.

I tuck Sam into the portable crib someone rounded up for us, a task made more difficult by Dean, who refuses to let go of me. He's still screaming. I'm starting to panic.

In the end, I walk him around the room, patting his back and bouncing him gently as I did when he was a baby. I try to sing a lullaby, but the only ones I know are the songs Mary sings-sang, and my voice cracks every time I try.

Dean has stopped screaming, but his broken whimpers are nearly more heartbreaking than his wails, and I feel tears cascading down my own cheeks as I hold his head to my cheek, feel the soft blonde hair that is so like Mary's, smell the baby shampoo Mary still used to keep his eyes from stinging in the bath. I whisper into his ear, feel as he finally drifts off to sleep, tense little body relaxing and breathing mostly evening out. Every once in a while, a sigh or a half-sob mixes in with his gentle breaths and I worry every time that he'll wake.

I lower him gently onto the bed, easing his tightly clenched fists from my shirtfront, gently rubbing my thumb over his forehead when he moans slightly, let out a sigh of relief when he turns and drops back to sleep. For a moment I sit and stare at my two beautiful boys, overwhelmed by the beauty and perfection of my sons. It hits me then.; I'm raising them alone. I'm all that stands between them and the big bad world. I'm responsible for teaching them, for raising them, for protecting them. I have to find a new house and choose an elementary school for Dean to attend next year. I'll need a better job than the mechanic gig I've been holding down, and Sam will need a babysitter. How the hell do you choose a babysitter?

It's overwhelming. I hurry into the bathroom, closing the door behind me as quietly as I can. I retch into the toilet for a few minutes, tears mixing with the thin bile. I finally sink to the floor, leaning my head against the sink, letting the sobs out. I try to mute them to allow the boys sleep, but it does no good and I bawl like a baby.

Mary is gone. I'll never feel the touch of her lips again, never play with her hair. I'll never hear her laugh, the awkward guffaw that makes people stare, never hear her get the hiccoughs again, the cute, dainty ones that seem to last for hours. I'll never feel her skin, silky smooth, never smell her again, a mix of lavender and vanilla. The sobs are wrenching, make me feel like gagging and like something inside of me is tearing.

It takes me a second to hear the sharp cry that comes from the bedroom, the pure panic in Dean's high voice. The vulnerability again overwhelms me for a moment, the small 'daddy' piercing me. I dry my tears and open the door.

"Coming, Dean, hang on buddy."

I take a deep breath. I can do this. We'll survive, and endure, because that's what we have to do. We'll be okay.


	2. Sammy Part 1

I watch the clothes tumbling around, oddly comforted by the rhythmic _thwoomp_ as they hit the the sides of the drier. Sam always brought a book with him when we did the laundry together, usually something stuffy and old, while I read…less reputable material. Usually a swimsuit addition when I could get my hands on it. I always managed to tease him just enough to get under his skin by the time the loads finished running, sometimes ending with him throwing the book at me or some of the clothes somehow ending up outside of the basket and in his face.

It's been a month now since he left. A _long_ month.

At first, I half-hoped he'd come back, all floppy hair and long limbs and dimples, that maybe he was just trying to piss Dad off, but at the same time, I knew he wasn't coming back and I didn't want him to. I mean, I just want him to be happy. And it's not like I can't hunt without him, can't function without him. Usually I barely even notice he's gone.

The drier beeps and I pull the warm clothes out, tossing them uncermoniously into a trash bag and slinging it over my shoulder. I throw the load of whites into the drier and sigh as I start the load.

Who the hell am I kidding?

I can't even do the damn laundry without taking a trip down memory lane, thinking about how we used to do it together from the time he was little and loved burying his face in the warm clothes. Everything is different now that he's gone. It shows up in the weirdest ways, how it takes twice as long to go through a bottle of shaving cream, not having anyone beg to drive, not having anyone to tease…Still, I'm holding up okay. It's Dad I'm worried about.

He acts as if nothing's changed, as if all that crap he gave Sam about "never come back" wasn't a complete bluff that he just never expected Sam to call. But he misses Sam and he doesn't act the same. The easy partnership we shared on hunts while Sam was here is gone, replaced with awkward silences and frequent solo hunts. I don't think he means to, but he's gotten distant, taking to the bottle more and more and going on hunts without me all the time. Only a month and we're already completely screwed up.

Maybe, with time, we'll be able to talk again, forget that Sammy, that kid who I've looked out for my whole life and protected at all costs, that kid who is Dad's favorite though he'll never admit it- maybe we'll forget that he's gone. Until then, I sit watching clothes tumble around and try not to remember a certain floppy-haired, long-limbed little brother.


	3. Sammy Part 2

Dean screams, a sound so unlike any he's ever made that it has the hair on my arms standing up. I think I've never run so fast in my entire life, which, considering the intensity of some of the situations I've found myself in, is fast. I'm still not fast enough to stop the nightmare that greets me.

Dean is lying on the cold cement, screaming, a piece of rubar protruding from his abdomen, and there's no way it missed all his vital organs. I drop to my knees and am suddenly reminded of a time when I was no older than he is in a country far from home, watching a buddy die, wooden stakes skewering him in a death trap set by the Viet Cong. The urge to vomit hits me hard and fast, and it takes all my willpower not to heave; Dean doesn't need that. He needs to me to be strong.

He's pale, his lips a sickly gray, and tears are streaming down into his hair and onto the ground. Dean is sobbing.

"Aw, shit, Dean," I murmur under my breath, running a hand through his sweat and tear-soaked hair.

I should've seen this coming. Hell, Bobby told me not a week ago to look out for my son, but I'm a stubborn-ass bastard and thought –wrongly- that I knew what was best for Dean. _Holy shit…_

It's been six months. I thought we were both doing fine, I honestly did. We both dealt with it in our own ways, though mine may have been a bit more isolating than is healthy. I screwed up. I've been turning to the bottle, and I've been running. Running from Dean, running from the whole damn situation, pretending that I hadn't kicked my youngest son out, as good as disowned him.

I thought we were both doing fine.

Dean gasps for breath and I start thumbing his forehead in rhythmic circles as I try to figure out what to do. Obviously, getting Dean medical attention is an absolute must at this point, but pulling him off the rubar is going to set off a chain of effects I don't think I can deal with, and if I try to get help here, in an off-limits construction site, the cops are going to be all over our asses.

Shit.

I have to think logically. I have to _think._ I take a deep breath and make my decision. I'll have to bust the gate open, but I've got wire cutters in the Impala, and then I'll bring the car around, and then I'll get Dean off the piece of damn metal, and then I'll get him to the hospital.

_Shit._

It's a crappy plan, and I know it, but it's the best I've got.

"Dean? Hey kid, I'm gonna go get the Impala, bring it right back, okay?" Dean doesn't answer, blinks up at me with glazed eyes, pain tightening his features.

"Dad," he slurs, and I wince at the obvious confusion and lack of focus in his voice.

"I'm gonna go get the Impala," I repeat, hoping it will get through to him. There's so much blood…

"Don' go," he whispers brokenly, and I nearly cry.

"Dean-"

"Daddy. Don' leave m'," he repeats, and I haven't heard him call me that since he was a frightened four-year old.

"I'm not leaving, Dean, I'll be right back," I say, looking straight into his eyes, praying for him to understand.

"Sorry," he whispers slowly, "'bout Sam. My fault." His voice trails off and he starts to go limp in my arms. Tears are actually streaming down my face now. He blames himself for the crap that's been the last six months.

"Dean. That is not your fault, you hear me?" I say firmly, tapping his temple. He looks at me blearily.

"You need to stay awake. _Awake._ That's an order, son, you got that?" I use my best Marine voice, the one that gets instant results. Dean struggles to comply, blinking lazily in an effort to clear his head.

"There you go, stay awake, okay? I want to know every album put out by Metallica, Led Zeppelin, and Black Sabbath when I get back, okay Dean?" Dean makes a grunt of agreement, even managing to roll his eyes slightly, and then I'm running, scrambling out of the building and over the chainlink fence and out to the Impala, ripping the wire cutters out of the trunk and hastily applying them to the gate.

I'm still taking too damn long. My hands are trembling by the time I get the keys into the ignition, wondering for the billionth time how in the hell we got into this crap.

Bobby tried to warn me. He told me to look at Dean, take a good look at him. He hasn't been eating, hasn't been sleeping, has slow reflexes. I didn't want to listen to him. Didn't want to believe that I was so distanced from my own son that I didn't notice his clearly failing health, didn't want to really have to think about _why_ he was so distraught. Because if I admitted that Dean was unwell, I would also have to admit that it was because of Sammy, and then we'd have to talk about it. And talking is something we Winchesters don't do so well.

So I ignored Bobby and pushed Dean, made him go on a hunt with me to a construction site (over an old cemetary- even without supernatural knowledge, you'd think people were smarter than that) made him distract an angry spirit while I frantically tried to salt-and-burn his bones, didn't even notice when he ended up on a rickety platform above my head. I did notice when he yelled, surprised by the spirit, damn reflexes that Bobby warned me about making themselves known as he failed to get out of the way in time and crashed to the floor.

Which leads me to now, running from the Impala in a desperate dash for my son, skidding to a stop at his side, feeling my heart sink as I take in his white, still form.

"Dean!" I cry, tapping his temple again, knowing better than to shake his shoulder. Dean stares up at me, a brief smile crossing his pinched face.

"Led…Zeppelin," he murmurs, and I nod, terrified that he's losing it. But he continues, slurring. "Led Z…Zeppelin T-Two…L-Le-Led Zepp…elin Th-Three." I smile for a second, relief flooding over me. Then I'm back to reality as his voice falters and hitches in pain. He groans, and I wince.

"I have to get you off of that thing, Dean," I whisper, and his eyes are so filled with fear and pain and _trust_ that I'm overwhelmed. I position myself as carefully as I can, squatting next to him and sliding my hands under the curve of his butt and midway down his back, and _holy shit_ am I actually doing this? I take a deep breath, and lift, as vertically as possible.

Dean's scream and subsequent limpness send me running to the car, tears trickling and goosebumps on my arms. His breathing is ragged and hitching, and he doesn't move. Ohshitohshitohshit…

I'm at the car faster than I realize, digging through the med kit and pulling bandages frantically out, wrapping the wound as tightly as I can. Dean remains unconscious, moaning slightly. I slide him into the back seat, placing his head on my lap, roaring away from the construction site even as I dial 9-1-1. Police be damned, we're meeting up with an ambulance on the way.

His breathing is stuttering more frequently now, hitching enough to send me into a frenzied panic as I wonder how much longer before we meet the medics.

We should've just talked about Sam. Should've just admitted that we miss him like hell, that we aren't the same without him, not even close to the same, but that maybe together we can move on. But I think we were both a bit delusional, just assumed that we were okay, that we could handle it. And now it's too late, and I'm terrified that I'm losing both of my sons and it's my damn fault. Both of them.

Then the ambulance is there, and EMTs are streaming around me, gently gripping Dean and sliding him onto a stretcher, shouting to one another and starting IV lines, telling me hurriedly that they've called for a MedEvac, then roaring away.

The drive to the hospital is long and lonely. Guilt and worry are eating me up, and I realize that Sam should probably know. That Dean would want him to know if…if the worst were to happen. I flip my phone open, thumb hovering over number two where Sam's number is speed dialed in, but indecision plagues me. What if Sam doesn't answer? What if he's unwilling to even pick up? But Dean needs him. I clench my jaw and close the phone, tossing it onto the seat beside me. I'm too selfish to even call my own damn son. I'm the worst damn father on the face of the planet.

I pull into the parking lot, run to the waiting room. We're trying to stabilize him, they say, and then we'll take him straight up to surgery. Small intestine got impaled, they say, and he's lost a lot of blood. We'll let you know when we know, they assure, have the tenacity to pat my shoulder. You'll need to wait here. They walk away, and despair overwhlems me.

I let my head sink onto the arms bunched up on my knees, sobs wracking my body. It's gonna be a damn long wait.


	4. Partner

I'm nervous. I'm nervous about where I'm going and why, and it isn't a feeling I'm used to. It isn't a feeling I like.

"Come on Winchester," I mutter to myself under my breath. This isn't like me. Even my baby isn't as calming as usual, the soothing rumble of her engine grating rather than helping my nerves. I realize too late that I missed the turn I needed to take. It's not as if I don't know where I'm going, I've been there more times than I can count, but I'm so distracted that I manage to miss it. _Pull yourself together, Winchester!_

Cursing under my breath, I swing a U-turn, a pretty difficult feat in an Impala, and apparently one that the driver behind me does not appreciate. I pull to a shuddery stop at the light, rolling my eyes as a horn blares behind me.

"Shut up!" I yell, sticking my hand out my window and flip the car behind me off. I am just not in the mood for this crap. The horn blasts again and I angrily look at the driver in my rearview for the first time. I'm surprised to see an old woman, blue hair and all, driving a Buick that's seen better days. I'm even more surprised as she slowly and deliberately sticks her own hand out the window and gives me the one-fingered salute. I can't help but smile, laughing to myself in disbelief as the light changes and I accelerate.

If I were a few decades older, I would so marry that granny.

My nervousness creeps back as I pull onto campus. It's been a while since I've been here, and even longer since I've actually seen Sammy.

Which is, of course, half of the reason I'm so nervous.

The other half of my anxiety is the fault of the other remaining member of my family, who hasn't shown his scraggly head for a few days, and who isn't picking up his phone.

It's hard to realize that either your dad is out dying somewhere or has decided to abandon you without saying a word. I hope that he's okay, know that he probably is. I hope that he's in trouble, know that it's a large possibility.

Weren't we partners? Hadn't I finally started being the hunter he always wanted me to be, fast and accurate and deadly and dangerous? Then why the hell would he just take off like this? A big part of me is reminding me that Dad is Dad, that I should listen to him without question, that if he's out there ignoring me, then he has a good reason for it.

It's hard.

What if that reason is that I'm too clingy? Or not good enough? Holy crap, I need to stop thinking. I'm starting to sound like Sammy.

Speaking of which…I peer into the apartment that I know is his, that I've driven by every other month or so since he moved in, wondering when it would be best to pop in. Definitely after dark. It'll be more dramatic that way, and Sam always did love theatrics.

I wonder vaguely if he's different. Maybe he's grown even taller. Maybe he doesn't hate me anymore. Maybe he wears sweater vests and pinstripes. Maybe he doesn't care about Dad.

Maybe Dad doesn't care about me.

I shake my head and pull out of the parking lot. If I'm going to wait until dark, I have time to eat. Time to get my head on straight, to forget that maybe Dad is dead or maybe Dad is disappointed in me, to forget that Sammy hasn't talked to me in two years and probably won't see the point in starting now.

I turn up the Led Zeppelin already blasting in my car and keep an eye out for a battered old Buick as I drive towards the diner.

A/N: Thank you for all of the great reviews so far! I really appreciate them.


	5. Jess

Another crappy motel room. I had forgotten -maybe consciously- how much I hated the nomadic lifestyle we Winchesters adopted until I was abruptly thrust back into it, bouncing from place to place, motel room to crappy motel room. This week, we found ourselves in a tiny, backwoods town in Michigan, and it was pouring on us. Just getting from the Impala to the room left both me and Dean soaking, and Dean, as usual, got the first shower.

I shiver and pull the ratty comforter closer to me, tiredly browsing the limited channels the old TV has to offer. It's hard being alone, even for so short a time. When I'm alone, I have time to think, and I inevitably think about one thing. Jess.

It's hard to believe that she's gone. It's been a solid month and I still only sleep on the right side of the mattress, still wake up expecting her to be next to me, hair around her head like a halo, smiling a little in her sleep. Instead, I usually wake up to a cold bed, or the few times I've been forced to share with Dean, his messy form, always on his stomach, drool dripping from his open mouth and snores rumbling.

If you told me a month ago that I would be back on the road with only my big brother for company, I would have laughed in your face. Not that I don't like being around Dean; he's my brother, my best friend, and I missed him. But Jess and I were in love. We were already talking about marriage –I hid the ring in my underwear drawer- and children and buying a house together. There are a lot of things to consider before you get married, and it had been exciting to think about with her. To have her take my last name. To have a joint checking account.

My own guilt mixes with an inexplicable desire to blame Dean for all of this. I know, logically, that it's not his fault anymore than it is mine, but he showed up after two years, no warning, no phone call, and within a week my girlfriend was killed. I know better than to think it was coincidence.

"Sammy. Sam, hey," Dean's low voice says, and I look up, blinking. Dean raises his eyebrows, lifts one shoulder towards the bathroom. "Shower's yours." I nod morosely but make no move to stand up, and Dean comes over and sits next to me. He's in his T-shirt and boxers, clearly ready for bed.

"Listen little brother, you've got to snap out of this," he says quietly, and I glare at him. "You're gonna get yourself hurt or killed if you can't focus," he continues, and I sigh. What the hell does he want me to do?

"I know you aren't sleeping, Sam," Dean says, voice low. "I know this is hard, but Sam-"

"Dean." I interrupt him and he looks at me, a hint of surprise evident on his features.

I run my tongue over my teeth and clench my jaw for a second, raising an eyebrow and half-smirking.

"What do you know about it, Dean?" I ask finally, rubbing my hands over my thighs subconsciously. Judging by Dean's stance, he recognized my pissy signs and is steeling himself for my reaction. I feel a flash of guilt that he can read me so well because I've behaved poorly so often, but it's quickly overshadowed.

"I know that it hurts to have someone you love taken away from you, Sam," Dean says, and I snort in derision.

"Yeah? Really Dean? 'Cause you haven't been in love since I can remember. There have been one night stands, but the great Dean Winchester can't let anyone in past his defenses, can he? And do you really think Mom compares to Jess, Dean? You were four when she died, Dean. _Four._ Jess and I had been together for a year and a half! I was going to ask her to marry me, to start a family with me! So don't you tell me that you 'know it hurts.' Because you don't know." I stand up, chest heaving, simultaneously surprised and ashamed at myself. I've been feeling the words coming for awhile now, have felt the emotions starting to pressure me to come out, but I've been able to keep them suppressed. Until now.

Dean looks at me, his expression unreadable, before standing and once again gesturing towards the bathroom.

"Dean, look-" I begin, but he shakes his head, looking away.

"Don't start, Sam. We're both tired. Just get in the damn shower." He climbs into his bed and clicks off the lamp next to it, clearly done with the conversation. I guiltily head for the bathroom, upset at myself for losing it so badly. Dean was just trying to help.

xxxx

Something drips on my forehead. It takes a few seconds for me to realize what's going on, then my eyes snap open as another drop hits my face. I scream, trying to scramble off the bed and getting tangled in the sheets, dropping painfully to the floor. I'm still crying, mumbling incoherently when I feel strong arms wrap around my chest, lift me to an awkward sitting position.

Dean. It has to be. Even after the things I said to him before…He'll always be my big brother. I turn and unashamedly let my head rest between his neck and shoulder, tears streaming down my face. Dean hefts me to my feet and leads me to his bed, muttering something about damn leaky roofs as he gently lowers me onto the bed. I'm clinging to him, and normally wouldn't dare to show this much emotion, but the lingering terror of being awakened that way again is overwhelming and I refuse to let go.

So we sit there. It reminds me of when we were kids, and Dean was always the only person who could calm me down after a nightmare, telling me stories or humming hard rock in my ear.

"Sammy?" He says suddenly, and I look up at him.

"I always wanted to be an uncle," he whispers, and I realize that he's crying too. It never occurred to me that Dean just wanted me to be happy, and if that meant me living a 'normal' life, than he was okay with that. It never occurred to me that he would be sad about Jess's death because I am. And it sure as hell never occurred to me that Dean wanted some semblance of normalcy in his life as well, wanted something as simple as being an uncle.

"Would've been fun to have a bunch of mini Sasquatches running around, you know? And you would've had some hot kids, Sammy." I cry harder, scrunching my face into his shirt, and we're still like that when we fall asleep.

xxxx

A/N: Thanks especially to Marinawings and Tisha Wyman for reviews…thanks for sticking with me, guys!


	6. YED

I lie on the floor, blood gushing lazily out of the wound on my thigh. For a second, Sam just stares at me, a mixture of relief and revulsion on his features, and I let my head fall back to the floor. I can hear Sam's voice, high-pitched and tight, the voice he uses when everything's gone to hell and he's trying not to panic.

"Dean? Hey, Dean?" Oh, crap. Dean. I just beat the shit out of my own son, who is now lying broken and bleeding on the floor. He's still whispering to Sam, "check on Dad, Sammy, check on Dad," and I can't suppress the shudder that runs down my spine . This is seriously screwed up. I painfully pull myself to an upright position from which I can see Dean. He's on his side, blood flowing out from his torn chest, making a puddle on the wooden floor beneath him. Sam's easing him onto his back, tucking his head into his lap as he leans forward to press on the wounds. Dean squirms weakly and groans, and I shut my eyes for a moment.

"Dean? Hang on son," I mutter, dragging myself to his side. Our blood mingles on the floor. Sam looks up at me, terror on his features, silently begging me to fix everything. It's the look of a desperate son depending on his father to make things okay. Holy crap.

"Okay, listen to me Sam, your brother's going to be okay, you hear me?" Sam looks at me, seems to gain strength from what I say, nods and presses harder on Dean's chest. Dean groans again, biting his lip with a wince as he tries to stop himself from making any noise. Sam leans over and says something in Dean's ear, strokes his brother's cheek for a second leaving a smear of red behind.

Holy shit. How in the hell did this happen? I can't help the mixture of revulsion and shame that floods through me. I let myself get possessed by that son of a bitch. The bastard that killed my wife and changed my baby boy to use in some sick plan, used _me_ to hurt my oldest. The yellow-eyed bitch has obliterated my _entire_ family. And suddenly, I'm pissed off that it just left me here. That it would come in, violate me, hurt my son, and leave. Like a damn coward.

Sam should have killed me. I begged him to shoot me, to let me take down this monster, this demon that I've spent so much time and effort and blood on finding…he should have killed me. Now I'm lying on the floor, left behind by the enemy I've been hunting for half a lifetime, and all I want is to have gone with him. We could duke it out in hell.

I'm snapped out of my reverie by Sam's panicked bark.

"Dean! Hey, stay awake Dean, come on," he shouts, patting at Dean's face. Dean's eyelids flutter lazily open, and he slurs Sam's name weakly. His teeth are stained red and more blood dribbles down his chin as I watch. Sam gently wipes the blood from his brother's face as Dean's eyes roll. He's fighting to remain conscious, and Sam's panic is dissipating, replaced by a fierce determination.

"Dean. Listen to me," he orders, and I stare in amazement at the way he's taken charge, at how he's become willing and able to do anything necessary to help his brother. Dean's eyes drift up and meet Sam's.

"I'm going to get you out of here, okay? I'm gonna put you in the Impala-" Dean shakes his head weakly.

"No. Dad," he mumbles, and more blood cascades down his face. Sam wipes it clean again.

"I'll get Dad right after I get you, okay?" Sam says gently, and Dean finally manages a nod. Sam looks to me, clearly asking approval, and I nod. Tears prick at the back of my eyes as I watch my youngest tenderly gather his older brother into his arms, whispering soothing words to him as he nestles his broken form to his chest. Dean whimpers for a moment before quieting, and then they're out the door.

I can't believe what I've done. What _it's_ done. I painfully pull myself to my feet; it's a time consuming endeavor, and I've only just stood when Sam comes back. There's blood smeared across his shirt, face, clumped in his hair. Wordlessly, he grabs my arm and tucks it around his shoulder, looping his other arm around my waist. We walk out to the car together, and I'm surprised by how much of my weight he's holding. He eases me into the front seat, and I look back at Dean worriedly. He's hanging on, but not by much, and it looks like there's more blood on his face and shirt than in his body.

The Impala rumbles to life and Sam takes off, driving quickly towards help, away from that room full of blood and the stench of sulfur. I risk another glance, notice Dean's eyes at half-mast, the way he's hunched over.

I can't believe what I've done.


	7. Dad Part 1

_Wham._ I swing the bat again, smashing I into the trunk of the Impala. Fury and guilt and sadness fuel every hit as I lay into my car. Of course, she was _his_ car first. His baby.

I remember pining for that car and only that car from the time I was eight years old. We used to work on it together between hunts, changing oil and spark plugs, waxing and polishing until she shone in the sunlight. We'd always sit in her when we finished, at first with Sam but eventually just the two of us, listening to music or sometimes just the low rumble of her engine. We'd both smile, reveling in the shared feeling of near-sensuality caused by the sound.

_Wham._ There were other memories too, of course. The time when Sammy was eight and got a back full of werewolf claws, I was the one holding him down in the backseat, listening to him scream in pain and unable to do anything about it. The times when I would stay up all night, waiting to hear the familiar growl of her engine only to be disappointed, or worse, to be confronted with Dad stumbling, bleeding, through the door. The time when I was too delirious to understand what was going on, hot and cold and trembling, hearing my dad talking to me as though he were a hundred miles away, telling me to hang on, hand on my thigh, gripping as if he could keep me there by will alone.

_Wham._ I remember when he gave her to me. Just tossed me the keys, told me to take care of her. He was so casual about it, it took me a little while to realize that she was mine. That the Impala, that beautiful hunk of metal, was _mine._

_Wham._ Piece of crap car. Couldn't even hold up enough to save my dad. I guess that's not really her fault, and technically she couldn't hold up enough to save _me_, but the end result was the same. He's dead. He's _dead _dead. Gone. From what I can tell, and it's a bitch of a thing to know, my dad gave his soul to the bastard demon that caused all of this in the first place. He did it to save _me._ Which means I'm single-handedly responsible for my dad's eternal soul going straight down south.

_Wham_. I hate this car. I love her, but damn it, I hate her. Full of memories and images that I can't forget. She betrayed me.

_Wham. _She's supposed to protect me from everything.

_Wham._ She's the only home I've ever had.

_Wham. _Piece of crap car.

_Wham._ I'm not stupid enough to think that I'm actually thinking about the car now.

_Wham._ A flash of guilt for taking it out on her.

_Wham._ But who else am I supposed to take it out on?

_Wham._ Dad.

_Wham._ But he's in hell.

_Wham._ Because of me.

_Wham. _My fault.

_Wham._


	8. Dad Part 2

I blink awake slowly, immensely confused and stunned by the blinding pain that spikes through my head. My face is pressed against something cool and soft, and I realize suddenly that I'm upside-down and swinging gently from side to side and something is gripping my legs. I want to panic but can't summon up enough energy.

The swinging motion is disrupted and my head bobs, smacking into whatever it is I'm up against. Pain erupts in my temple again and this time I groan. The swinging stops abruptly and my head connects twice before stopping, and _damn_ it hurts.

"Sam?" It's a gruff voice, low, and I moan again as I feel myself being moved, then I'm on my back on the ground and I finally grasp that someone was carrying me.

"Dad?" I ask, my vision too blurry to make out the face in front of me.

"No Sammy, Dean," the person says, and that makes sense to me. Still.

"Where's Dad?" It slurs a bit as I ask it, and I can imagine Dean frowning in worry, forehead crinkling between his eyes.

"Sam…Dad's dead. Two weeks ago. Can't you remember?" I realize that Dean sounds more than worried, sad maybe, or in pain, and then I do remember. I remember Dean being hurt, dying, and Dad…We'd both figured out pretty quickly that Dean's miraculous recovery and Dad's sudden death were related. I remember Dean's words, too. "Dead things should stay dead, Sam."

Yeah, I remember. Dad's dead and Dean thinks it's his fault. And we're stuck out in the middle of a forest, a hunt gone wrong, what's new, and my head hurts like a bitch and I can't even think straight.

"Sammy? Do you think you can walk?" I think about it for a minute, knowing the answer is pretty much no, but I grunt something that I hope sounds like yes. Dean gently hefts my left arm over his shoulder, and I remember then that my right arm is dangling uselessly by my side. As if in response to this remembering, pain flares up there, too. Great.

Dean pulls me upright and the moment I stand pseudo-vertically the world starts spinning crazily. I lurch uncertainly, careening to the side. Dean makes a strange strangled sound as he struggles to keep me standing but it ends up being all he can do to help me to the ground without painfully dropping me.

"S'rry," I slur, just before a wave of nausea overwhelms me and I retch. Dean mumbles something, but I'm too preoccupied to pay much attention to him, let alone comprehend whatever it is he's saying. I lay there a moment, catching my breath, then I'm being lifted. This time, I my arm is tucked around his neck, my head nestled by his shoulder, his arms under my legs. He's carrying me like a girl.

I must have blacked out, because now I blink my eyes open again. The pain isn't so bad this time and I can think a bit more clearly. It isn't pleasant. All I can think about is that we were distracted on this hunt, a simple haunting that honestly should have caused us no trouble ended up going down the toilet, because neither of us could think straight. It's Dad's fault.

He left us on our own. I mean, I know that it isn't like he hasn't left us before, Dean and I were hunting alone for a good while before we caught up with him. But he was still _there_, still a phone call –or two or three- away from us. And his leaving broke Dean, as surely as if he'd picked my brother up and torn him in half. Bastard.

The rhythmic movement I've grown so used to stutters suddenly, and with a pang I realize that Dean doesn't sound right. Something just sounds…_wrong._ His breathing is wheezing and labored and with horror I notice the wetness under my cheek. I bring my broken hand up, _damn_ it hurts, and tentatively touch his chest. Definitely wet. And I know what it is. _Holy shit, Dean._

"Dean," I say, but he continues to plod forward, and I notice that he's limping badly. How the hell could I have missed all of this? But the continuous pounding in my head answers that. "Dean," I repeat, desperate to get him to stop. He stumbles, nearly going down, and I hear a small whimper despite his obvious attempts to bite it back. I feel myself being lowered to the ground, landing impossibly gently on soft grass, then look up to see my brother's hulking shape above me.

"Dean," I say again, and this time it seems to register.

"Sammy," Dean whispers, and the tone of his voice scares the crap out of me. "I'm sorry." I blink in confusion just as Dean crumples to the ground. It's like slow motion, his knees giving out and hitting the ground and then his torso and then his head, smacking next to me.

"Dean, come on, answer me!" I mutter, crawling to his side. He's pale in the moonlight, lips parted slightly, eyes closed. His breathing is slight and shallow, and the blood covering his torso is made horrifyingly clear. I swallow back tears and panic and try to figure out where he's hurt, but my hands are shaking and I can feel the bile rising in the back of my throat again.

"Please, God, help me," I whisper, because I'm terrified. My head hurts like hell and my wrist is sending flares of agony up and down, but I know that I'll live. Dean, on the other hand…What if I'm here alone? Left behind by everyone I know and love, alone with all the darkness that most people are oblivious to or simply ignore…I can't do it. There's no way.

I don't try to hold back the next round of vomiting, and tears mix with it as I heave. Everything is spinning again and there's blackness infringing on my vision but I can't bring myself to care, and then everything's gone.

xxxx

I wake up to the familiar and unmistakable feel of a hospital. Same white sheets, same annoying IV and beeping heart rate monitor, same bland walls and floors. I gingerly touch my head, feeling the bandage there, lift the heavily casted right wrist with a grimace. Turning to the chair next to the bed, I'm surprised that Dean isn't camped out in it. Must be getting a coffee…Oh, shit. Dean.

I hit the call button on my head, slamming it again and again until a flustered and angry looking nurse comes into the door.

"What do you need?" She asks, fakely sweet. I know she hates my guts right now. I don't care.

"Where's my brother?" I demand, and she raises an eyebrow.

"Mister Schneider," she starts, and that must have been the fake ID we had, "Maybe he just went to get a drink, or to take a shower." I have no time for this shit.

"My brother, the one who was brought in with me!" Suddenly I realize that it could have been just me. I have no idea how in the hell I got here, and the thought petrifies me. What if Dean was left out there? Or he's dead? No, no way, no. He's here. The nurse looks at me and steps out of the room, talking with someone. When she steps back in, she's smiling.

"He's here, Winston," she says, and I have to hold back an eye roll. Dean and his stupid names. "He's in the room next to yours. He's recovering nicely from his surgery." I blanch. Surgery? Damn. I want to ask questions, demand to know exactly how he is and how we got here, but that's not the number one priority right now.

"I want to see him." The nurse shakes her head, and I glare. "I want to see him, _now_."

Five minutes later, they wheel me next to Dean's bed, and I take his heavily IV'd hand in mine. I look at his sleeping form, and I promise to myself and to him that I'll be there when he wakes up. I'll always be there when he wakes up.


	9. Meg

A/N: I don't think I've yet disclaimed the Winchesters, so here it is. They aren't mine. And thanks for all of the great reviews and alerts!

xxxx

I realize suddenly that I've been zoning out big time the past few miles. My arm is still burning and I rub it out of habit, allowing the familiar vibration of the Impala to soothe me. It hasn't been a good week for me.

On a completely selfish level, I feel totally violated. To have some demonic bitch in my own body, in my _head_-it's disturbing and revolting and disgusting. On another level, I killed one man, at the very least threatened Jo, and I beat up my own brother.

Yeah, I've had a lot on my mind.

I look over at Dean, noticing for the first time my brother's tight grip on the steering wheel. A closer look and I realize that his knuckles are white, and then I hear something. It takes me a second to figure out what it is, and as soon as I do I know that things have definitely gone to pot. Dean's humming, and it's unmistakably Metallica. Damn it.

"Dean?" I say quietly, uncertain how to get past the gap that is between us. Because if Dean's been reduced to muttering "Enter Sandman" under his breath, then it's bad, and he conveniently forgot to tell me something, probably something I'm responsible for.

He doesn't answer beyond a grunt, continues humming around barely uttered lyrics, 'off to never never-land" and I sigh. If he's hurt and hasn't told me…I need to figure out how to phrase my question to avoid having him shut down completely on me. I eventually decide on a combination of stealth and trickery. Not the best way, I know, but I can think of nothing else to get him to stop.

I take a deep breath and press down, hard, on the burn on my arm, not even trying to suppress the groan that comes to my lips. Dean's head whips toward me, brow furrowed. He's pale, dark rings under his eyes, and I no longer feel bad for using underhanded tactics.

"You okay, Sammy? Should we stop?" Inwardly, I can't believe that Dean is so damn selfless. I _know_ that he's hurt worse than I am. Outwardly, I shrug weakly, shake my head.

"No, no, I'm okay. Keep going." His frown deepens as he turns back to the road, switching lanes.

"We're stopping." He says it firmly, turning onto the next exit without saying anything else to me. I have to consciously keep myself from letting out a sigh of relief. Dean's knuckles are still white, and now I can see that his whole body is shaking slightly.

The motel Dean chooses is nondescript, peeling and crumbling and like a thousand other places we've stayed. I'm grateful when he comes back to the car with the key to a room on the first floor. He pulls in, and for a second we just sit there. I'm contemplating whether or not to pick up Dean's duffle, knowing that he'll protest and it might be hard to get him to talk, but before I can do anything, he's climbing stiffly from the car, circling around to the trunk. He grabs my duffle. _My_ duffle.

"No way, Dean, I can carry my own damn bad," I growl, snatching it from him. I am so frustrated that it takes all my will power not to lay into him in the parking lot. As it is, I grab the key from his hand and stalk to the door. He stares at me, a bewildered expression on his face as I do it, and that just makes me angrier. He doesn't even get _why_ I'm upset. Stubborn-ass brother.

I shove the door open and fling my bag onto the bed furthest from the door, storming into the bathroom and turning the shower on. Closing the bathroom door, I'm surprised when Dean isn't in the room. At first I think he might have gone back to get something from the car, but his bag isn't here either. Which means that Dean's not come in yet. Rolling my eyes, I walk out of the room, fully expecting Dean to be leaning against the Impala, stubbornly trying to take care of his own wounds. Wouldn't be the first time.

I'm not expecting, however, to find my big brother sprawled face-down on the pavement.

"Dean!" I shout, hurrying to his side. I drop to my knees, gently easing him onto his back, carefully supporting his neck and allowing his head to rest on my legs. His breathing is short and fast, and his pulse is racing. His skin is burning. Damn it.

I pat him down gently, trying to find the wound I know is there, cursing under my breath when my fingers graze what has to be a bandage on his left shoulder. I tug the collar of his shirt down, biting my lip when I notice the blood spotting the gauze, slowly seeping through into his tee.

"Damn it, Dean!" I mutter under my breath, bracing myself for the effort it will take to get his dead weight into the motel room. After a moment, I stand, heaving my brother into my arms, stumbling into the motel. Dean's head lolls.

I settle him on the bed and run out to the car, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste to get the first aid kit out of the trunk. When I get back to the room, I'm dismayed to notice that Dean hasn't moved at all since I deposited him on the mattress.

"Come on, Dean," I mutter, dampening a washcloth and drawing it over his forehead. He's trembling under my touch, and I'm almost afraid to cut the shirt away and expose the full wound. Still, I do it quickly, hands shaking in nervous apprehension. The bandage is soiled and doesn't come away when I try to move it from the wound. I cautiously wet the gauze, letting it soak so that I can get it out. I don't want to think about how the hell it got shoved in there. I'm pretty sure that I had something to do with it.

I ease the bandage up, wincing at the inflamed and bloody sight before me. It's a bullet hole, or was once, but it looks like someone went to town on it. Probably me. Not only does it look like crap, but it's really, really obvious that it's infected. I grit my teeth for a minute, eyes closed as I try not to lose my temper. If Dean had just told me, or even Bobby, then we could have prevented this from happening, or at least from getting this bad, but no, he's too damn stubborn. Did he honestly think that it would be better for me to find out what I did because he passed out than by just telling me?

I need to get some antibiotics in him, probably some pain medication, and he's going to get dehydrated if he doesn't drink anything. It's a daunting task, to say the least.

I rummage through the med kit, surprised to find a prescription for Vicodin made out for Jo Harvelle in it. When did Dean have the chance to see Jo? I can't imagine him stealing from Jo, of all people, but I don't see how else he could have gotten the prescription. Unless…I look more closely at the wound and realize that someone rather crudely dug the bullet out of Dean's shoulder. It has to be Jo's handiwork.

Dean moans, and I place a hand on his forehead in an attempt to soothe him. Green eyes blink hazily open, searching for a moment and taking longer than I like to focus on my face.

"S'mmy?" Dean's voice is raspy, and I grab a water bottle from my pack, holding it to his lips and slipping a pain pill in with it. Dean raises an arm to hold it himself, but I can see how badly he's trembling and I know he'll be unable to do it. He drinks hungrily, and I have to pull it away from him to get him to stop.

"You ass," I say, unable to keep the affection out of my voice as I again wipe his forehead down. "Why didn't you just tell me?" Dean blinks blearily, smiles lopsidedly at me.

"Didn' want you t' worry," he says, eyelids sliding closed.

"Hey, hey, Dean," I say, tapping his cheek. Dean blinks at me again.

"Hey, S'm." I roll my eyes.

"Listen, you're pretty sick, man. We've got to get you help," I say, and Dean shakes his head. He points to his shoulder, raises an eyebrow.

"Bullet wound," he says, and the unspoken 'duh' is crystal clear. I rub a hand over my face. What the hell am I supposed to do?

"So. Short of kidnapping a doctor, I don't know what to do, Dean," I say despairingly, but if I wanted Dean to help me, I'm sorely disappointed.

"S'm, the walls are moving," he murmurs, and I worriedly touch his forehead again. He's even hotter than before, and I'm too scared to get the thermometer and actually check. If I had to guess, though, I'd say he's at least 103, maybe 104. Not good.

"Okay, Dean, I'm going to call Bobby. Maybe he can give me some suggestions," I say, even as I grab the flask Dean always carries and some antibiotic cream from the med kit. I pour the alcohol liberally over the wound, barely flinching as Dean gasps and arches away from me.

"Damn! Sammy!" He shouts, and I feel another twinge of guilt on top of the craploads of guilt I'm already drowning in. This isn't supposed to happen. I smother the cream on the wound, holding the phone to my ear with my shoulder, waiting for Bobby to pick up.

"Singer. Is that you, Sam?" I sigh in relief.

"Yeah, Bobby."

"Is it Dean?" He knows us too well.

"Yeah. Hey, did he say anything to you about getting shot?" The string of expletives that explodes over the phone line answers that question.

"Me neither, Bobby, and it looks bad. It's infected and I'm pretty sure that it got…irritated at some point by…someone." We both know what I'm not saying.

"Stubborn-ass Winchester," Bobby spits, and I nod.

"I know," I say with a sigh. "I don't know what to do, Bobby. A hospital's risky…" I let my voice trail off.

"If his temp gets above 104.5, I'd take him in. You can always blame it on a hunting accident, and if he goes septic it'll go downhill fast."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," I answer, but my voice is shaky because I'm pretty sure that Dean is close to, if not over, Bobby's line. Hospital it is.

"And Sam? I know you're feeling guilty as hell right now, but that was not you, you understand me? Dean doesn't blame you, and you shouldn't either."

"Okay," I say quietly, "Thanks, Bobby."

"Anytime. And you get that arm of yours looked at too while you're there, okay?" I manage a chuckle.

"Sure thing, Thanks, Bobby."

Ten minutes later and, thermometer having confirmed my suspicions, I'm wrangling Dean into the Impala. Another fifteen and he's rushed to an OR to clean up the wound and after selling my hunting accident story, I'm reduced, once again, to sitting dejectedly in a waiting room. Two hours and I'm allowed into ICU to see him.

He's groggy and disoriented and "not out of the woods yet" but still manages to smile weakly when he sees me.

"Hey Sam," he mutters, and if he wasn't in a bed with tubes and other crap in him, I'd so kick his ass right then and there.

"Hey. You okay?"

"Course." He grimaces. "Maybe not." I smirk at him.

"That's what happens when you don't tell your awesome little brother about crap like this," I say, and he shrugs.

"Sorry, Sam."

"I know. Me too." He yawns and looks tiredly at me.

"How long am I stuck here?" I snort.

"How long? Dean, you're so full of antibiotics and painkillers right now that it's going to be at least a few days, probably a week." He opens his mouth to argue, frowning, and I cut him off. "Don't even think about it. Shut up and go to sleep." Dean glares at me and rolls his eyes, but falls asleep within minutes.

I stare at his sleeping form, knowing that he'll be okay now, because he's Dean.

Stubborn-ass brother.


	10. Brother

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews and sorry for the slow update- I'm leaving for my first year of college next week and life has been UBER hectic. It might be a while before I can write more, sorry…

xxxx

I don't sleep anymore. I can't. I won't. Yeah, there are the nightmares, so intense they leave me breathless and gasping for air, a thin film of sweat soaking my entire body. They all start the same, standing on a dark road, grinning with relief as Sam's lanky figure approaches, then running in horror as a dark form slides behind his, as Sam lets out a wrenching cry and falls to his knees. I grab his shoulders, say his name, but he can't keep his head up and the sight of it lolling makes me sick. I bring my hands up, the right one smeared red, hold his head, stare at his face as it stops being Sammy, scream his name.

When I'm lucky, it ends there.

When I'm not, I'm in a dull, dark room with him sprawled lifelessly on the mattress across from me. His eyes snap open, coldly looking at me, gaze accusing and angry.

"Why didn't you save me, Dean? You had one job to do, one damn job. Now look at me, I'm dead Dean. I'm _dead_ and I'm never coming back."

Even if it weren't for the nightmares, I wouldn't sleep. I spend hours just watching him, listening to him breathe. I'm always scared that if I fall asleep, he'll be gone when I wake up, flat on his back, still and pale and dead. The last time I nodded off, I woke up to find Sam sleeping on his back and for a moment, he was lying in a cold lonely room on a cold lonely mattress, and I was sitting by my little brother's dead body and my whole world wavered and collapsed and was over – again.

Because the little brother doesn't die first. That's just not how it works. He's my Sammy, has been my life since before I understood what life is. He's been my sole purpose for waking up in the morning since the first time I held him, tiny and crumpled and squalling, and realized that this was _my_ little brother.

I'm not delusional and I don't have unrealistic expectations. I know that hunting is a dangerous gig, that there's only way for a hunter's life to end, and that's in a hunt- but is it too much to ask that I go first? That I never have to watch him die?

I'm pretty confident that at least now, I've finally taken care of that, got a one-way ticket to Hell to prove it. But, still, I worry that I'm going to wake up and find him dead, and this time, I'll have nothing left to trade.

"Dean?" Sam's voice startles me and I turn quickly to the laptop in an attempt to hide my staring,. I doubt Sam would believe it anyway, but the screen gone black from being dormant so long definitely doesn't help.

"Why are you up?" He sounds suspicious, and way more coherent than I want him to be.

"Couldn't sleep." Nice, honest answer, intentionally vague. He'll see right through it.

"Yeah." He flicks on the small lamp by his bed and for a moment we both blink and squint as our eyes adjust to the sudden brightness. Sam looks at me and mutters something under his breath.

"Crap, Dean, when was the last time you slept?"

"Yesterday," I mumble.

"That was a nap, 45 minutes long. When was the last time you _slept_? You know, like a normal, six hour sleep?"

I'm a good liar. Always have been. "Couple days ago."

"Bullshit." Sam doesn't buy it. Never has.

"It's been awhile, okay? Get off my back." He gives me the "My-Big-Brother-Is-An-Idiot" Look, followed closely by back to back "Pissed-Off-Sammy" and "Determined-Sammy." Kid's got so many looks he's like frickin' Zoolander.

"Dean." He shifts so that there's room for me next to him on the mattress. His meaning is clear.

Aw, hell no. And that's not a term I use lightly anymore.

"Come on." He's impatient, sitting up and folding his arms, giving every indication that he's in it for the long haul. Damn it. If it'll make him sleep better…

I sigh and trudge to the bed, purposely scuffling my feet on the carpet so he knows exactly how displeased I am. Sam's look doesn't change.

"Sam, this is really-"

"Just shut up, Dean." I lie on my stomach, face buried in the musty mattress. Sam pries an arm out from under my body and guides my hand somewhere. I'm about to give some snide remark when I realize what he's done. My hand is resting on his chest, directly above the familiar, comforting beat of his heart.

"I'm here, Dean, okay? I'm here and I'm not going anywhere, so get some damn sleep." The rise and fall of his chest, the lub-dub of the pulse under my palm- both rhythms conspire to lure me to sleep, and for the first time since, well, since _then_, I don't fight it.

Sam shifts and moves and in my state of half lucidity I clutch at his T-shirt. One of his hands grasps mine as he rolls over, then a click and we're in darkness. I don't fully relax until my hand is once again settled on Sam's chest. If he ever mentions this, I'll deny everything. For now, though, I'm content to lie in the darkness, listening to our easy breaths and gentle snores.


	11. Protector

It's been two weeks, 3 days, 8 hours and 42 minutes since I saw my older brother get mauled to death by invisible hellhounds. Bobby took his body away in his truck, said that his cement-lined garage would be cool enough to keep it there for a few days, and I'd vomited when he said that because I wasn't supposed to be thinking of my brother as a body. And I sure as hell wasn't supposed to be thinking of my brother's body as needing to be in a cool place.

I wouldn't burn him. I did, the other time he died (after a lifetime of Tuesdays and nightmares,) built up a pyre of wood and watched his body burn and melt away until there was nothing but his bones, bleached white and brittle, but I couldn't do it this time, and the thought made me sick. This time was for real. No Trickster involved here, just demons and death and hell.

I left Bobby after only a few days and he persists on calling me often. I know he's worried. I want to ignore his calls, I want to allow my anger to overwhelm me and block out the sadness that is lurking under the surface (and threatening to erupt) but I can't, so as I'm speeding down the road in the Impala (2 weeks, 3 days, 8 hours, and 42 minutes later) I answer the phone.

"Where are you, son?" Bobby asks. I don't answer, and Bobby sighs. "Fine, Sam. When was the last time you ate?"

I ignore the question again, but I realize when he asks that my stomach is growling. And wrong as it feels, I know that I still have to eat, with or without Dean.

"Listen Sam, get yourself some food and then I want you to get some sleep, okay? Just pull over at the next motel you see. I'm worried about you."

It's midday, but I know that he's right, and Bobby is the only man left on earth who cares about me, so I should show him the courtesy of actually acknowledging him.

"Thanks Bobby. I'm okay."

"You aren't okay, Sam."

"No."

There's another silence.

"You do what I said, okay?"

"Okay."

I pull into the next café I see, a small, dull looking building with a flickering light proclaiming 'Jo's.' It's fairly busy inside, and the waitress assigned to my table is frustratingly peppy. She's bubbly, talking animatedly as she waits for my order, standing next to my table, one hip cocked out and one finger twirling in her hair. I grit my teeth and finally slam my menu to the table.

"Don't you have other tables to wait on?" I demand loudly, and she stops talking suddenly. Her mouth opens once then closes again, and a glare settles on her face.

"Yes," she says coldly. "I'll be back with you coffee."

She comes back and roughly sets the coffee down so that some of the hot liquid splashes over the rim.

"Are you ready to order?" She snaps, and I glare at her.

"Yeah, actually. I'll have the chicken caesar salad, and an apple juice."

I'm careful not to order anything greasy and dripping, because I would rather not break down into tears at a café.

The waitress juts out her lower jaw as she writes down my order.

"Look, sorry if I pissed you off-" I say, and she suddenly bursts into tears.

"Where the hell do you get off?" She demands, her voice rising in pitch. I see another, older and probably more experienced waitress approaching quickly.

"I'm having a bad day already, and then you come in here and act all-"

It's too much for me. I know I should just keep my mouth shut…

"_You're_ having a bad day? What, did you wake up with a zit on your face? Did your car break down? My brother just _died_. I just buried him. So I think I have the right to not be driven nuts by an overly peppy waitress and I think I have the right to be pissy!"

The waitress stares at me. So does the rest of the restaurant. They probably think I'm crazy. The waitress scurries away without another word, bursting into tears again as she heads for the bathroom.

I'm panting, trying not to cry, sipping at my coffee with a trembling hand.

The older waitress approaches, a pot of coffee in tow.

"Sorry about Lizzy," she says, pouring me some more. "She's only been here two weeks."

Dean died two weeks ago.

The waitress puts a hand on my arm.

"At least your brother is in a better place, sweetie," she says, and suddenly everything stops for me. The tears aren't threatening anymore and my heart isn't thudding and I stare at her in shock, completely taken aback.

Dean isn't in a better place. Dean is in fucking _hell_.

I throw my head back and laugh, unable to keep the rumbling guffaws from pouring out. Everyone in the restaurant thinks I'm a basket case. I can see a couple get up and leave and an elderly woman frowning at me and the waitress standing there with her steaming coffee…

I laugh until tears leak from my eyes and the laughs morph into sobs.


End file.
